It's Not Always Rainbows and Butterflies
by Carolyn984
Summary: Prom is supposed to be a night to remember, but when you're without the one you love, how can it be?


It's Not Always Rainbows and Butterflies  
  
Written by Carolyn, Carolyn984@aol.com  
  
Disclaimer: The characters are Meg's but this story is MINE!  
  
"It's not always rainbows and butterflies,  
  
It's compromise that moves us along  
  
My heart is full and my door's always open,  
  
You come anytime you want.  
  
I don't mind spending every day  
  
Out on your corner in the pouring rain  
  
Look for the girl with the broken smile  
  
Ask her if she wants to stay a while,  
  
And she will be loved. . ." -Maroon 5  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
You know what I think?   
  
I think that, if I could, just once, for one measly day in my life, be normal, today would be it. Why, you ask?   
  
Well, today, of all days, is Mission Academy's junior prom. When I should, like any other seventeen-year-old high school girl (with stunning good looks and impeccable style, if I do say so myself), be flouncing around and my elegant Jessica McClintock ball gown, making the night one to remember as the sunset splashes into the calm blue sea. I should be laughing and smiling on the dance floor, impressing my classmates with my fantastic and patented moves, making them wonder why I am even in high school, not off in Hollywood or some other ridiculous celebrity haven.   
  
Right. Me, a celebrity. That'll be the day. I don't get any privacy as it is. With paparazzi up my rear twenty-four seven, my little secret would be out for the world to read in the tabloids in two-point-three seconds flat. I can see the headlines now: Famous Actress Susannah Simon Converses With Dead.   
  
Yeah, forget having a social life then. As if I had much of one to begin with.   
  
Anyway, that's how it's supposed to go. Me in my fancy white dress, mingling with the junior class students of whom I am vice president. When people ask, Hey Suze, where's your date? I should be able to reply, Oh, he's just getting me a drink, or Oh, he's in the men's room. Back in a flash!   
  
Instead, no one asks me where my date is. No one who knows me well enough, anyway.   
  
Because I don't have one.   
  
Oh, stop feeling sorry for me already. It's not like I haven't been asked, or anything. Quite the contrary.   
  
It's just that, well, how *could* I go with someone else? I mean, how awkward would that be? For me, at least. My date wouldn't, of course, know that I would only be going with him, whoever he happened to be, for appearances. Because that's what it would be. I couldn't like anyone enough to go to the prom with them for any other reason than that. Appearances, I mean.   
  
No one who goes to the Academy, anyway. No one even *alive*, for that matter.   
  
I know, I am perfectly pathetic. You don't have to remind me.   
  
But yet, somehow I am anyway. Reminded, I mean. And by the one person I truly despise.   
  
"Hey Suze."   
  
It's Paul Slater. Of all people. Paul Slater, and I can tell by the smug look on his face that he knows exactly what I've been thinking this whole time. Embarrassing.   
  
"Go away, Paul," I snap at him, hoping he'll take my snideness for anything but the humiliation that I know it to be. God, if I could for just one freaking minute, NOT have to deal with what Paul Slater thinks of me, or what Paul Slater knows about me, I would be just jim-dandy. Really. It is because of him that my life has taken the unexpected turn that it has. Because of him, that I dread (well, okay, more than usual, anyway) going to school every morning.   
  
He slid into the empty chair next to me that was, at one point, occupied by Cee Cee. Who, might I add, was now looking quite blissful with her arms linked around Adam McTavish's neck. Having come to prom together, as expected, but only as friends (to Cee Cee's everlasting dismay), the two were dancing the night away. God, it must be so nice to be normal. Even as normal as them, the self-proclaimed 'freaks' of the class. No wonder I get along so well with them.   
  
"So Suze," he continued, as if I hadn't just told him to get lost. He does that a lot. Ignore me, I mean. "I see you're here alone, too."   
  
I rolled my eyes. Then I froze. "Wait a minute. 'Too'?" I asked. "You mean you didn't take Kelly Look-at-Me Prescott?"   
  
I was truly stunned. Paul, of all people, I figured would have girls lined up around the street to go to the prom with him. Not me, though. See, he asked me. I, clearly, had to refuse. Come on, it's only natural. I mean, I didn't loathe him quite as much as I used to, but I wasn't about to actually, you know, be his date, or anything. No way. I could only see myself coming here with one person, and well, since no one else would be able to see me here with him, why bother taking anyone at all? Like I said, it would just be Awkward City.   
  
Paul chuckled at my question. "And be suffocated by the cloud of hairspray if I came within a ten-foot radius? I think I'll pass, thanks."   
  
Well, at least the guy was rational. Sort of.   
  
I didn't really know what to say to that. So, I just went, "oh."   
  
A brief moment passed, and Paul casually laced his Armani-clad arm over my chair. If looks could kill, the glare Kelly was sending my way would've shipped me six feet under in no time. I sighed.   
  
"Suze, look," he began. "I know you and I never really hit it off. . . "   
  
Yeah, you got that right. Leaving me for dead, sexually harassing me, and then trespassing and destroying my house tends to do that to a relationship.   
  
". . . but I'm willing to do whatever it takes. I didn't take Kelly because, well, I was kinda hoping that you would show up, even though you said you weren't going to."   
  
That was true. I actually had no intention of coming to this stupid, artificial school dance when I could be spending the night in my room, or heck, the cemetery, if that's where my heart took me.   
  
God, I am such a loser. Who spends their prom night alone?   
  
Well, I'll tell you who. Girls who are in love with nineteenth-century ghosts. That's who.   
  
When my mother heard this, however, she would have no part in it. The fact that I wasn't going to go, I mean. Not that I wanted to spend the night in the mission cemetery. Geez, if she ever got wind of *that* particular idea. . .   
  
But anyway, she *insisted* that I go. I had no choice, really. My sweet, well-meaning mother actually dragged me out of the house, to the *mall*, of all places. To go dress shopping. I couldn't believe it. She thinks I'm just some kind of wallflower, a born leader who's just a little shy.   
  
Um, mom, tell me one other person who's kicked as much self-righteous ghostly ass as I have, and then try telling me I'm 'just a little shy.' I don't know anyone else with the guts to have themself exorcised. Do you, mom? Hmmm?   
  
I was snapped out of my little reverie when Paul waved his big tanned hand in front of my face. I guess I was kinda staring at my glass of diet coke for quite some time. Well, you know, those little bubbles around the ice cubes can be very interesting.   
  
"Hey, Suze. Earth to Suze. I asked you a question."   
  
I tore my green eyes away from the fountain glass. A breeze caressed my long, tawny hair, done half-up and curled with romantic ringlets to frame my face. "What?"   
  
"Do you want to dance?"   
  
My jaw dropped. Really it did.   
  
But not because of Paul. Because of what I saw *behind* Paul.   
  
Or, to be exact, *who*.   
  
I couldn't believe it. I really couldn't. What was he doing here? *What was he doing here??*   
  
I took a quick glance back at Paul, who was staring at me with his icy blue eyes and a sideways smile. I almost felt bad for declining his offer, then. Almost.   
  
But not quite. Not after who I just saw, leaning against the gate of the Mission, his arms crossed against his chest, casting a knowing smile in my direction. No way.*No way*.   
  
"Um. . . " I said as I stood up, still unable to tear my eyes away from the man at the cemetery gate. "Maybe later. . . "   
  
Then, without another word, I grabbed my small silver purse from the white- and-violet draped table and began to make my way over to where he was standing. Paul turned to see where I was going, and followed his gaze in the direction of my departure. Upon seeing the object of my intent, he sighed in defeat, shaking his head slowly. He looked down for a minute, until Kelly Prescott stalked up to the table.   
  
"Dance, Paul," she said, taking his arm with her gloved hand. "Now."   
  
He sighed again, with another glance in my direction as Kelly tore him away, and smiled sadly.   
  
"I hope you're happy, Suze," he murmured.   
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
Happy I was, indeed.   
  
"Hello, Querida."   
  
His smile brought tears to my eyes. It really did. I'm not even kidding. I just couldn't help it. And like I've said before, I'm not the crying type.   
  
"Jesse. . ."   
  
"Are you having fun with your friends, Susannah?" He took my hand in his and held it gently. I was still awestruck at his appearance. I mean, I know he lived right here in the rectory now and all that, but just the fact that he showed up at my prom like he did. . . well, it just. . . it just meant so much.   
  
I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. I was not, I repeat *NOT* going to turn into a basket case over the simple fact that he showed up. I was not.   
  
"Susannah?" Jesse asked, his dark eyes boring into mine. "Susannah, is something wrong?"   
  
I sniffed, regaining my composure. Then, I smiled up at him. "No. . . nothing's wrong. Everything's. . . everything's perfect. . . "   
  
He grinned. "Good." And he began to lead me away from the masses of people in the front breezeway. By the time I had finally built up the resolve to speak without sounding all squeaky, we were behind the school by the back fountain and the new flower gardens that had recently been planted by the Ecology Club. An arbor of purple and white (our school colors) clematis vines bordered the pathway we were walking on like an artificial ceiling, only it had open holes where the wooden arbor crossed over itself and the delicate flowers wrapped around. The deep night sky peeked out from the little gaps in the trellis. It was really pretty impressive.   
  
"Jesse. . . why," I cleared my throat, feeling something hard form in it, which would ultimately make my voice crack in a rather embarrassing way, "why did you come here?"   
  
He looked down at me and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. It wasn't out of nervousness that he did it, though. He smiled even wider with one of those expressions I could never read.   
  
"Susannah, it's your prom night. How could I not come?"   
  
Before I could really digest what this meant, I asked, "Does. . . does Father Dominic know you're here?"  
  
Great, way to spoil the mood, you idiot. Like Jesse needs to tell Father Dominic where he is all the time. He's not, like, five years old.  
  
God. *God*. Why am I so *stupid*?!   
  
Instead of giving me a straight answer, he just looked up at the Junipero Serra windows, off in the distance now that we were down at the end of the nicely-decorated path. Then he looked back at me.  
  
"I believe the father has a bit of an idea where I am." He had a mischievous look in his liquid eyes. One that told me he clearly hadn't told Father Dom he was coming to my prom.   
  
Even though we were separated from the boisterousness of the actual dance floor, the music boomed loud enough through the DJ's speakers that we could hear it from where we stood. Some hip-hop song just ended, surely one of Dopey's favorites, and I was positive that Debbie Mancuso was clinging to him like a leech throughout the whole thing. Whatever. Like I cared what my meathead stepbrother was up to. I was here, more or less alone, with the man of my dreams.   
  
Jesse looked at me as a slow song began to play. He had a determined twinkle in his eyes where the moonlight reflected off of them. I looked up at the stars, which were winking down on us in the velvety night sky. It was just too perfect. . . too, too perfect. . .   
  
"Susannah. . . would you?"   
  
My breath caught in my throat a little. I didn't have to ask 'would I what?' because before I could even make out a reply, Jesse encircled my waist with his strong arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt his breath, however unnecessary for him, tickle my cheek.   
  
A blissful moment passed between us. Then:  
  
"Are you happy, Susannah?"   
  
I was kind of taken aback by this. I mean, was I not making it clear enough by picking up and leaving the dance that there was nowhere else I'd rather be, than right here, in his arms?   
  
I lifted my head from his chest and met his gaze, which I noticed, was quite serious. There was no trace of a smile any more.   
  
"Jesse. . . " How was I supposed to respond to this? I mean, from the look on his face, I could pretty much tell he didn't mean if I was happy with, you know, third period chemistry, or anything like that. "Jesse, you. . . you know I am. How could you not know that?"   
  
"Susannah, I know when you're upset. You cannot hide it from me. You're sure there's nothing bothering you? Nothing at all?"   
  
Um, you mean the fact that my would-be boyfriend is, let's see, dead? And I don't even know how long he's going to stay in this world? And, when he does find out whatever is keeping him here, he's going to just pick up and leave, regardless of whether he wants to or not? And, the fact that I know all this, and still refuse to acknowledge that, eventually, my heart is going to be broken into ten million pieces and never going to be pieced together, ever again?   
  
You mean that? Why would *that* bother me?   
  
I looked up at Jesse. His strong, handsome face, shadowed in the moonlight, was one of concern. I felt that sharp twinge in my nose again.   
  
"I. . . I think you know," I whispered. When I looked away, he lifted my chin in between his thumb and forefinger, bringing my face up to his.   
  
"Susannah," he breathed, his voice deep. "Susannah, listen to me. Are you listening to me? I told you. . . I'm not going anywhere."   
  
Oh, God. . . I so did not want to get into this conversation again. It always made me cry, and I mean, come on, is it such a crime to not want to cry on your prom night, and get, you know, all dribbly and have your makeup all run and stuff? Seriously.   
  
. . .but, I felt the conversation heading in that direction anyway. . .   
  
"But you don't know that, you know?" my voice caught on a little sob. Oh, Lord. "I mean, do you even know what's keeping you here? What if you find it, and all of a sudden, poof, you know, there you go, never to be seen again, and nobody knows why, and then I'm left here all sad and confused and everything, just wondering why, and--"   
  
Jesse cut off my blabbering, thank God, or I probably would've said something I would rather not have. Looking back on it now, good gracious, I really embarrass myself sometimes. It's a wonder why Jesse doesn't just give up on me. I'm hopeless. Really, I am.   
  
He placed his forefinger over my lips, and mouthed "Shh. . . it's all right." I was kind of subconsciously twirling little bits of the hair at the back of his neck in my fingers, unable to pull away from his gaze. The way he was looking at me. . . well, he's only looked at me like that a couple times before, and twice that look resulted in a kiss. So, if he happened to, you know, decide to lay one on me right there, well, who was I to object?   
  
"Querida, I already know what's keeping me here."   
  
Oh God. My heart started racing, and not in a good way. If he just found out why he's been here so long, that must mean his time here is almost up, and he'll be moving on soon, and I'll never see him again! That's why he's here tonight. . . not just to grace me with his company. No, he's here to say goodbye!   
  
I felt my eyes welling with tears. If what I though was true, the whole I- know-why-I'm-here-so-I'll-be-peacin'-out-soon thing, I don't think that even my waterproof Maybelline would be looking too fly by the end of the night.   
  
Jesse leaned in until his lips brushed my ear. I held my breath, waiting for the words Goodbye, or Nice knowing you. You know, something like that.   
  
"I'm here because you are."   
  
Um, okay. WHAT?   
  
I pulled my head back so I could see his face. I felt a stray tear run down my cheek, leaving a rivulet of salty liquid in its wake. I just stared at him, my mouth nearly hanging open, any ability I once had of making coherent sentences mysteriously MIA. "Wh. . . what?"   
  
He smiled, and I swear something inside me shriveled up and wilted away. Jesse then enunciated each word slowly, as to add emphasis. "I'm here, Querida, because I am supposed to be. With you."   
  
Two more tears bubbled out from my eyes, but this time it was out of relief. I smiled so hard I'm surprised I don't have permanent smile wrinkles there. Give me a few years. I'm sure they'll show up. And I even use sunscreen every day. That's how hard I was smiling.   
  
I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him so tightly, it was a good thing that ghosts don't need to breathe. Maybe it was because I was so relieved, or maybe it was the rush of prom night, but at that particular moment, I was feeling particularly ballsy. "Jesse. . . I'm. . . I'm so. . .," I pulled my face out from his shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Jesse. . . I. . I l--ub ooo."   
  
Of course, that's why it sounded like. Not naturally, thank God, but because he put his finger over my lips again, making it kind of difficult to enunciate properly. "Shh, Querida. . . I know. . ."   
  
And then he pulled me closer, tucking a stray curl behind my diamond- studded ear, and kissed me. Again.   
  
And again.   
  
Um, okay, remember when I said I wished I could be normal, even if just for tonight? Yeah, I take it back. Being this freak who can see ghosts is, so, *so* much better. . .  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
© 2004 by Carolyn  
  
Send all comments/criticisms/etc. to Carolyn984@aol.com 


End file.
